


plush bunny blood

by thisisgermy



Series: whaat huuuuh [4]
Category: Half-Life
Genre: American Sign Language, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Gen, Graphic Description, Guns, Hunter - Freeform, Made up back story, Not Beta Read, POV Second Person, Selectively Mute Gordon Freeman, Spoilers, Touch-Starved, Violence, White Forest, Writing Exercise, attack. kill., gordon violent and fucked up moments, i tagged it as the wrong thing there is no major character death 3ghdghv3hgvdf, maybe? - Freeform, mentions of D0G and Uriah, mentions of Issac and Eli, punches to the face, that one elevator scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25794952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisgermy/pseuds/thisisgermy
Summary: 1. Gordon protects Barney.2. Gordon protects Alyx.3. Alyx and Barney protect Gordon.'are you alright?''yeah. ... yeah, I'm fine.'
Relationships: Barney Calhoun & Alyx Vance, Barney Calhoun & Gordon Freeman, Gordon Freeman & Alyx Vance, Gordon Freeman & Barney Calhoun & Alyx Vance
Series: whaat huuuuh [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1905175
Comments: 16
Kudos: 92





	1. I broke my teeth, yes I broke my teeth

**Author's Note:**

> what happens when I'm sick for like an entire month; this  
> this was gonna be separated into two chapters because of how long it got/the second one was started later, but then I got an idea and decided to combine 'em, so here's this real long first one! I haven't written a single chapter this long in a while and at this point I'm not sure if I'm just talking out my ass. pog  
> writing in the second pov is actually really fun! I've barely done it in the past, so this is all practise  
> also I don't got a clue when this would take place in the game so that's for y'all to decide g3hgvfsd

**started: 3/8/2020**

you duck behind the make shift cover just in time for their hail of fire to dig in to the rock, sending a cloud of dust to coat the air in a thick, heavy mist. you thank whats left of your lucky stars that the rock is thick enough to stop the travel of bullets, then take stock of your ammunition, and see four full clips in the chamber.

120 shots left.

you listen intently to the Combine just over twenty yards away - to the impatient clicks of their weapons, their static-y, distant mumbles, the scuffs and shuffles of numerous military boots. you'd already let loose five clips, from the second you'd come into contact, yet no matter how many you'd downed, more and more seemed to spring in to replace the fallen. that was a new development; the Combine never filtered people through that fast, that efficiently, to replace dead ranks. the new development makes you feel uneasy. maybe you're in a new, popular Combine spot, or maybe they're brute forcing it. you're not entirely sure. 

you're alone, separated from a squad of rebels thanks to an un-predicted ambush. it happened so suddenly that you hadn't had time to think about it. you weren't sure if your group had made it out or not, but the resounding silence does little to alleviate your anxiety. you'd had plenty of ammo and supplies before the ambush, now dwindled down to scraps, another tick to the anxiety meter that the Combine were not playing around anymore.

the ambush had been ten minutes ago, back in a building that seems miles away from here. unless you had a lucky turn, you truly were on your last ropes.

you sink lower and scan the surrounding area for anything that could help. all that leers back are over turned cars and blown open buildings, and miles upon miles of debris. no spare crates of ammo nor a lucky grenade or two, only the left over rubble and ruins of the city. an upside to everything - at least there are no Headcrab's roaming around.

with a huff of irritation, you give yourself a few seconds to check over your rifle, roll your shoulders, and psych yourself up, before throwing your upper body over the rock. you return fire in flurries, and it's a miracle that all of their shots graze by you instead of being peppered into your chest. numbers didn't mean shit if they couldn't hit an unmoving target.

you briefly wonder why they refuse to move from their position, but the itch that something's wrong isn't enough to make you assess a different point of view. it's not until you've let three clips run dry and duck behind the rock that a solid, cold pressure pushes into the back of your neck. you feel your blood run ice cold, and it's then that it clicks as to why the Combine haven't budged. you'd not heard a single thing from behind; not the crunch of gravel nor the click of a gun, completely drowned out by the rush of adrenaline in your ears. you're off your game, too on edge on a different perspective to pay attention to the full picture. distracted, dehydrated, hungry, exhausted, stressed.

'don't. move.' snaps the crackly voice of a Combine Scout directly behind you. they shove the muzzle of their gun deeper into your neck to empathise their point, and it makes your brain squirm.

'well shit, there goes my dancing act.' you snap back just as quickly, unable to help yourself. you hear a garbled huff that could almost count for a laugh.

'so you're a smartass as well as a traitor?' another horrid crackle, the Scout dragging their gun up so it grazes through your hair. you hide your shivers as best you can, refusing to show any weakness to them. you can tell, just from the feel alone, that it's a Shotgun. 'figures. now turn around so I can get a good look at you.'

'awww, treatin' this like a date? you really-' you don't get to finish your jest, the butt of their Shotgun slamming into the back of your head, hard enough to make stars spread across your vision. you crumple to the floor like a sack of potatoes, your Pulse rifle sent skittering an arms reach away. for a minute, everything is wrapped in a thick fuzz; all you can see is a searing whiteness, and all you can hear is a dull ring. everything seems to move at both a snails and rabbits pace as you blink the lights away and gulp in deep breaths.

'-king mouth if I were you. yer' should count your dumbass lucky I ain't shootin' you right here and now.' you tune in with a sharp jolt, pain instantly stabbing into your skull with every beat of your heart. you can feel something wet trickle down the back of your neck, and you vaguely register that that is _not_ a very good sign. you feel the urge to throw up, but you viciously fight against it, and you grit your teeth as you slowly start to clamber onto your hands and knees. every part of you screams at the movement, begs for you to stop, but you push through it with steely determination. 'now, get the fuck up, and turn the fuck around, so I can plant a bullet right between your eyes.'

you take one deep breath and hold it, and then spin around. you sweep your leg out and knock the Scout onto their ass, where they land with a cut off yelp. even with the world rotating in a nauseating motion, you had the full intention to leap on top of the Scout, rip their gun away, and bash their head in with it, but the sight that makes you freeze is the rapidly approaching line of Combine Soldiers from down the street. there had to be at _least_ ten of them - eleven, counting the knocked down one - not the mention the flank still stationed _behind_ you. their soulless glass eyes glare into yours as they charge to your position, a mixture of different branded guns aimed at you.

by then, the Scout had gotten back up, their Shotgun poised between your eyes, just as promised. they're spitting things you can't decipher. the cold metal bites into your skin, but you're too preoccupied in watching the Combine line come to a halt just two yards away from you, all of them screaming. their words are a garbled up mess that you stand no hope of understanding; their voices are the only thing you _can_ hear, everything else drowned out by their harsh slurs. three have Shotgun's, three have SMG's, and four have Pulse Rifle's, so, overall, it's not gonna be a very fun time.

weaponless, sporting a fresh concussion, down on your ass, and severely outnumbered, you quickly come to the conclusion that you are absolutely, royally fucked. your vision tunnels in on the end of the barrel as your mind whirrs, and you're not sure what to think. elation? depression? fondness? regret? blankness? everything at once? nothing at all? would you stand a chance if you charged them? would it be better to go down fighting, or easily give in? the past flashes before you, too fast to keep track of; of everything you could've done, should've done, would've done. bile swims up and down your throat like a winding river as the seconds agonisingly drag on.

'oh _**SHIT**_ -' the Scout suddenly barks, breaking you from your last moments. their Shotgun scrapes up your forehead to be pointed at somewhere over your head, the action causing your skin to burn. you notice that the other Combine's have their attention drawn over your head too, their yells amplified ten fold. you crease your brows, wondering what the hold up is, why aren't you dead, before ear shattering shots are fired, so close it makes you protectively draw into yourself.

a rush of wind flies over you, and something large and orange crashes into the Scout, knocking them to the ground for a second time. the Combine line have stilled their fire in shock, and you watch the back of your saviour pump a stream of bullets into the Scout. you don't see the explosion of gore first hand, instead watching the stream of blood track through the dirt once the shooting stops. now you really have turned deaf, tinnitus settling in.

just as quickly, the orange something bounces off the dead Scout and rushes toward the line without fear in their step, their gun replaced for a thin metal rod. everything beyond that becomes too foggy to follow - you're vaguely aware that there's a war raging right in front of you, but you're too star struck to take notice of it. maybe its shock, maybe it's the concussion, maybe it's the fact you'd been so close to death - touching it, flirting with it, daring it into a dance - that has you in such a daze.

you had been a breath away from dying. you haven't been that close in a near decade. 

for the second time today, you blink, and there sits the entire world. the streets are filled with pools of blood, fresh bullet holes decorating every solid surface, polluted skies rolling with smoke, a litter of dead Combine Soldiers marking up and down the street. every single one of them, dead; some laced with bullets, others with parts of their body smashed down to the bone. the Scouts face is ripped through, mask pieces and brain matter and a dislodged eye, sprawled only a yard away. it makes you cringe, how easily the mask and armour have torn under the brunt force trauma. reminds you that what you wear really is nothing more than a thin paper coat.

it wasn't necessarily quiet, but it wasn't overbearingly loud either, stuck between a grey limbo. at least, you figured, you don't actually _have_ tinnitus, since the rings have stopped. you wonder if you have actually died, since nothing feels particularly real; head too light, limbs tethered down by invisible weights, brain floating. you're firmly lodged somewhere else.

and then, all at once, you crash back down from your cloud, and see the backside of the HEV suit a ways away from you, as clear as day, stood by the heap of bodies. you can tell they're heaving with ragged, heavy breaths, their back splotched in red marks. they're holding a crowbar in a fisted, shaking hand, red dripping off the end of it into a growing puddle that speaks volumes of the strength behind their swing.

you realise it's Gordon Freeman. you realise you don't much like what you're seeing.

like he'd heard your thoughts, Gordon's head snaps to where you sit, and you can see the full extent of his image. from the left side of his chin to the right side of his hair sits a messy splash of blood, with an unhealthy dose of dots covering the rest of his face. his eyes are impossibly wide, ablaze with a kind of fury you've never seen him wear before. the front of his HEV suit is just as covered as his back, and it's impossible to tell whether it's his own or not. instantly, fear seizes your heart, and all the pain and fogginess of before fades away into a new need to survive, to run away, to get up and fight back.

_but it's_ Gordon, you scold yourself. _Gordon wouldn't hurt me. he's my friend, he would never hurt me_. yet looking at Gordon now doesn't fill you with the best of faith. he looks scary. he looks straight out of a nightmare. he looks like he's about to march right on over to you and bash your head open with the crowbar, and not stop until your brain is on the inside out. the thought makes your stomach uncomfortably lurch, that river of bile threatening to spill over. _but Gordon wouldn't do that to me_. _he knows me, he wouldn't do that._

_... but what if there's the slim chance he_ will?

and Gordon does just what you'd feared the most; he marches right on over to you, his crowbar swinging with each heavy step that sends specks of blood flying. his eyes flare with intensity, more visible the closer he gets, a gaze you've only ever seen him direct at the Combine, and your pulse just about stops dead. you have no where to scramble, the rock blocking any hope of leaning away, and you see nowhere to slip off to.

when Gordon stands right in front of you, leering you down with red hot rage, you think to yourself - _this is it. this is where I'm actually gonna die_. and you don't even fight it, ready to accept it, paralysed on the spot. the thought sits on your tongue, stains the back of your throat, and all you can do is sit there and wait for the finishing blow.

* * *

**started: 5/8/2020**

years ago, when you'd been fresh on the job, a civilian had gotten the jump on you. not that you'd minded - you'd had full intention on letting her get away. but while knocked down on your ass, she'd had the bright idea of stomping on your left leg, smack-bang on the knee. and she'd had a _heavy_ stomp - merciless, relentless, scared and running on full flight. you'd turned the cameras off, so it was just you and her in the interrogation room; no back up came, and you, to your credit, had refused to scream loud enough to attract attention.

you'd ripped the mask off and said, in an as quiet and tear-less voice as you could muster, 'hey, it's alright, I was gonna send you off to the canals to get you on outta here'. the civilian had stopped, processed your words, stared at your gross, tear smudged face, then down at your half mangled leg, and then started to splutter out all kinds of apology's. she'd helped you up, stirred you to sit on the table, and concluded that your leg was ' _really fucked up_ '. 

' _yeah_ ,' you'd agreed, each tiny jostle sending white hot rods of pain to slither up and down your bones. ' _yeah, it sure fuckin' feels like it._ '

you had praised her on her power and sent her off on her way with a scraggly, hand drawn map, long before Dr Kliener had invented a more stable spreadsheet of directions. you'd slipped the mask back on and informed the other Combine about the civvies escape, the number she'd done to you, where you think she could have gone (you'd sent them in the complete opposite direction). the event had kick started a bunch of long lasting repercussions as a result - more Combine's stationed in and outside rooms, cameras to only be turned off three times a week, wrist bounds for chairs, stun sticks to be on sight at all times. you supposed it was an eye for an eye - or, in your case, a leg for a leg. sure as hell made it harder for the first few months to work around, but the experience had made you stronger.

after a week of being on heavy med's and the new rules being put into place, you'd come out with a usable bum leg. you weren't sure why you'd still been allowed on the job after that, but you didn't question it. through the years, you'd gotten better with the limp, figuring out how to run and walk without it being obvious; how to get around the cameras, how to let people know you were there to help them escape while keeping your cover under wraps. it had become far more work, but you'd come to appreciate it. you'd learned a lot of new things, on how to trick and fool the Combine.

now, the limp is barely noticeable, and only those that know about it can see it. your limp reminds you of your first days; reminds you of why you'd taken the position in the first place. why you'd wanted to help from the inside rather than the outside, even if it did have its heavy load of trauma and regrets. someone had to do it when the idea had been initially pitched, and it couldn't be Issac, or Eli, and definitely not Alyx. you'd wanted to help restore humanity in any way you could, and in doing so, you'd wanted to save the people you cared about from baring the brunt of anything they didn't necessarily have to face. Kleiner and Eli were busy with their teleporter's and science, and Alyx was just far too young to be sent into such a place.

so, why not you for the position of Spy?

this isn't the same situation as then, not really. you're not even sure why the thoughts hit you from nowhere. you're an outed Combine traitor, and Gordon isn't a civilian, and the teleporter's have been constructed and Alyx is much older, but the memories still strike nerves anyway, prominent and there.

years upon years of guilt bubble to the surface as you take in the expression of Gordon; of that ignited rage still smouldering in his every minute twitch. in his rage, you see everyone else's - all the people you'd had to beat to avoid suspicion from your peers, the looks of disgust marked on their faces whenever you swung your fist back. makes you ill, makes you remorseful, makes you want Gordon to smack you in the jaw and break it, as if that will be revenge enough for all the pent up years.

by then, Gordon has leaned down to your level, hunched on his legs, wrists resting on his knees. he still holds the crowbar, the constant blare of danger crystal clear within your peripheral. the stench of blood and decay wafts off him, a lethal reminder of the damage this man can cause in a matter of seconds, all by his lonesome, using just a hunk of metal as his main weapon. Gordon proved that all of those rumours were true, and not just a load of fantasied bullshit from a bunch of people with dodgy recollections.

it takes a few ticks to register that Gordon is signing something to you, awkward around the crowbar but still decipherable. you try to focus on him; to drag your mind to here and not then, to squash out Gordon being a threat, you really do, but it's a lot more difficult than it ought to be. all of a sudden, it's hard to focus on anything anymore, pain and nausea playing tug of war with every part of your body.

'Gordon?' you rasp instead, not paying attention. you watch something in Gordon's brow twitch as he stills - _is he gonna hit me?_ \- before the crowbar gets stashed behind his back. he takes a small shuffle forward, his hands landing on either side of your face, a soft, gentle touch that you can easily break from. you flinch at first, but even with the smears of blood, the threat Gordon still harbours, the look ignited in his eyes, you can't help but melt into the hold, something like ill fitted calm washing over your heart. you don't deserve this, but you can't help it. 'G-Gordon.' you say again, for lack of anything better. at your lucid stare, Gordon removes his hands, and you feel a cool dampness left behind. he glares straight into your soul, and tries to sign his question again.

'are you okay?' Gordon's arms shake. it takes you a solid minute to rack through what the movements mean. it hurts your temple something awful.

'wuh?' you lick your lips and shamble about on the spot to sit up. you try again after a few rib rattling hacks that don't help with the migraine. 'y-yeah, I'm- I'm fine Gordon, I'm-' Gordon's hands find their place on your cheeks again, his rage only deepening in his deep set scowl, fingers splayed around your ears and into your hair in almost desperate grips. _he's going to rip my head off_

'Barney.' the croak of a voice. voice? that's not you talking- who's voice is that? 'are you okay?' Gordon. Gordon? is that _Gordon_ talking? why is Gordon using his _voice_? Gordon never speaks - never spoke, _ever_ , not even at Black Mesa. 'Barney, look at me.' you do. 'did they hurt you?' 

'you're-'

' _please_ , Barney, I need to know.' it sounds like he hasn't used his voice in a millennia, because he probably hasn't - it's scratchy, quiet, weak, barely above a whisper, but you hear him all the same.

'they-' taken completely off guard, you can only look at him with an open mouth. you're on cloud nine, but not in a good way. '... they hit me, on the back of the head, but-' Gordon sighs through his nose, an angry puff that puts you further on edge. 'Gordon-'

'I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner.' he grits out, looking to the dusty floor, hands still on your face. 'I'm sorry I-' Gordon starts coughing, but only briefly, a flutter that you can feel reverberate through his entire body. you're exhausted, emotions run on full tilt; you're not sure whether to be petrified, or elated, or worried, or- 'come on. better cover. medical.' Gordon's reduced himself to short sentences now, the strain of using his voice kicking in. 'can stand?'

'G-Gordon, wait, what about you? you-' a thought hits you, so sudden it almost tips your body clean over. you don't feel threatened by Gordon as much anymore. 'wh-what about the- the flank? behind us? oh my god Gordon, we gotta get moving, they-' weights settle on your shoulders, not pushing you down, but keeping you in place all the same. the shudder of new panic deflates almost instantly, words dying on your tongue, Gordon's red coated glasses trained on you. he seems different now, even if you can't put your finger on why.

'dead.'

'... _all_ of them?' he nods once. '... Gordon, that was a ten man army at _least_.' he jabs his shoulder toward the group behind him. 'yeah, you killed like, twenty of 'em in what, a minute? that ain't natural, man.' 

'heard you.' he mutters, like ploughing through a mini army for one person is a good enough justification. he grips your upper arms and tugs, and you find yourself being pulled up to your feet. the motion almost makes you throw up your ribs. 'was worried you-' he coughs again, worse this time, and when you're both standing upright, with his right arm supporting you, you pat his chest. you completely miss how he leans back to inspect your injury once he's finished clearing his throat.

'do-don't talk if it hurts ya, Doc.'

'not bleeding anymore.' he sounds worlds relieved. 'dizzy?'

'a bit.' by the time you blink, you're inside a tarnished building; an old bookstore, judging by knocked over shelves and half rotted books. you're placed down on a chair that's five seconds away from shattering under you, Gordon's presence removed from your side to stand off near a table that's chock full of med kits. you hadn't even noticed yourself start walking. hadn't noticed the scenery change. _Jesus Christ, how far gone am I?_ '... huh. didn't know the buildings were stocked.'

you're not sure how long you blank out for. _again_. how many times has that happened in however long? three times? four? Gordon doesn't seem to mind though, if his understanding gaze and lingering touches are anything to go by. you notice that some of the blood has been hastily cleaned from his form, obvious in the faint streaks spanning across the suit and smeared across his face, so at least he isn't as visually threatening. he doesn't look as scarily angry now either, though he isn't calm, nor happy. a controlled kind of fury simmers under his skin, and you know that if you push him enough, it could all come exploding outwards, aimed at you instead of the enemy.

you kind of _want_ to push him. make him explode on you. you kind of _are_ the enemy, in a way; you want to make Gordon extract revenge for all the people that couldn't. but. but that's dumb. that's a dumb thought. you're thinking dumb.

you shove the thought away and stare at the floor.

your head doesn't feel any better, even with Gordon patching you up the best he can. every time he jabs at it, a hot kind of agony ripples down your spine that makes you wince and Gordon back away. you feel sick to your stomach, and the guilt, more guilt, always guilt - that Gordon had to stop what he was doing to help you - froths to the forefront of your thoughts in a relentless cascade. you didn't want Gordon's help, as thankful as you were. Gordon needed to be out there helping the _civilians_ , not you. he's wasting time with you. you don't deserve his help, not after everything you've done. 

'Gordon, I'm sorry.' you almost whimper, a hand landing on his upper arm to catch his attention. you feel Gordon tense under you, but you refuse to look him in the eye. 'you shouldn't be helpin' me; you should be out there helping everyone else. sorry you had'ta come rescue me-'

'Barney.' there's that anger again, spiking his words. you inadvertently flinch at his tone and remove your grip from his arm, and you wonder what he's going to hit you with, but after a minute of silence, nothing strikes you. '... I am my own person. I heard you, so I came to help.' you're unsure on what to say, head blank. you think back to the women that had caused your permanent limp. 

'... I know, but. y'know.' you shrug, keeping your gaze on the cracked floor. 'I do 'preciate it. thought I was a goner, but-' your face is cupped again, gently tilted up, and you rove your eyes up to his. his glasses are stained red, no longer full of dots, and his face is still a mess, still a nightmare, but under all the blood and grime and exhaustion and anger, you see him. 

neither of you say anything else, more than content to see the differences in each other. perhaps it's dumb, perhaps it's sappy, but the mere sight of him - of those striking eyes behind a layer of smudged glass - is enough to ground you. you feel his thumbs run soft lines across your cheekbones and under your eyes, and you sigh, your touch starved brain leaning into it. everything from the past fades to give way to the present, and though not by much, you feel just a tad lighter. the negative emotions boil into nothing, until the only things left is a dull pain and heavy exhaustion.

'have I ever told you how fucking scary you can be sometimes?' it comes out without warning, shocking the both of you, but at least it gets him to smile, if only barely. you raise your left hand to hold the back of his, giving it a soft squeeze that conveys all the things you'd left unsaid. ''cause when you wanna be? you're fucking scary.' 

'sorry if I spooked you.' his smile is turning just on the edge of smug, wrinkles soft, eyes returning back to their blank contentedness. you know it won't last - not here, not now. not for long. but you have to get your peace as it comes, however short and brief it lasts. 'I was just- ... I was _scared_ , Barney. I heard you and I thought they were going to kill-'

'well hey, they didn't, yeah? thanks to you and your fuckin'- your monster like energy. I'm fine now. ... oh and uh, thanks for patchin' me up.'

'does it still hurt?'

'nah, just stings. I ain't exactly got the best doc on hand, but I guess I'll take what I got.' you smirk back at him, and he snorts, the smile stretching to his eyes. he lets go of your face; you slump your arm down, and he softly pokes your nose that makes you indignantly grunt. you yearn for a more simpler present with a less convoluted past.

'MIT did not teach us medical.' Gordon signs this time, his smile wide and fond now, a dull shine restored to his expression. 'now come on, before the Combine find us again.'

'yeah.' you pad the back of your head, and your arm is swatted away. still stings, but not as bad as before. your vision doesn't swim as much, and the tides of your stomach have calmed down.

'oh! here you go.' Gordon reaches behind his back and thrusts your Pusle Rifle towards you once you're up right, and you accept it with a grateful tilt. 'do not drop it this time, okay?' you bark a quiet laugh at his choice of words, a brow cocked in a "are you serious?" kind of way.

'smart ass.' 

the two of you walk back out into the world. you fidget with the rifle and make it a point to ignore the dead, walk around the pools, not take notice of the mangled face of the Scout nor look beyond the rock where Gordon had emerged from. there's a tug on your sleeve, and you turn to see a question in Gordon's raised brows. 

'I'm fine, Gord, really. are you sure you didn't get shot or nothin'?' he shakes his head and pats the thigh of the blood crusted HEV. 'if you say so. ... oh hey, I don't suppose you ran into a group before ya found me ...?' he shakes his head again, and your heart crushes just a touch more. he keeps his grip on your arm, and you don't shake it off. with a sigh, you nod, then slowly begin to walk, Gordon following your lead. you tread passed the hole-covered rock and toward the open Combine barrier, still ignoring the mound of bodies, not bothering to see who had been killed by who. you keep watch of each others backs, swivelling around at the tiniest of noises with your guns bared like teeth. 

there's still a long road ahead of you both. for the time being, you shove the image of monster Gordon to the back of your thoughts and keep moving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Later Alligator OST - Alligator Blues (Arcade Theme)" for the chapter titles!  
> I am sick to DEATH of looking at this holy FUCK  
> edit 15/8/2020: y'all. y'all I'm so stupid 3hgvsdfhg the pulse rifle can only hold 90 rounds and I literally did not realise this until like. waaaaay after I wrote this SO! half life au where everything's the same but the Pulse is buffed to hold 120+ rounds 3hgfdjhvb32jhfd


	2. can't get no relief, can't even chew my beef

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> started: 10/8/2020  
> I accidentally deleted when I started this one. also tagged it as major character death instead of graphic violence. the only deaths in these chapters are Zombines and Combines and they ain't major deaths babey!!!  
> this takes place in that one chapter with the elevator in ep 1! I forget the chap name, but I hated that chapter

the darkness is getting to you, and bad. not having your own flashlight to control makes your brain shiver something awful, every lurch of the beam causing your stomach to drop into an ice cold pit. you trust Gordon, but this situation is delicate, and you'd _really_ prefer to have your own light rather than relay on Gordon as your second pair of eyes. anything could sneak up behind you, silent and careful, and you'd be none the wiser until Gordon turned to warn you. you hated that vulnerability, that lack of control, how completely out of power you are here. you hate the darkness, you hate the Zombine's, and you _hate_ this stinking underground parking lot.

you scold yourself for not coming better prepared throughout this whole endeavour. ' _always pack like you're going to war_.' Barney had advised, many moons ago, curling a flashlight into your hands with a worn smile. ' _better to go somewhere over-stocked than bring nothin' at all and be fucked six ways from Sunday, yeah? and a flashlight? that should be top priority, paired with a weapon_.' truth is, you hadn't had the time to consider a flashlight. the only things you'd managed to grab were your gun and multi tool, everything else left behind in favour of rushing.

you wonder if Barney ever took a flashlight with him. think of the hypocrisy if he'd forgotten.

the HEV flashlight, as the both of you have come to learn, is actually pretty shit when needed for long periods of time. it lasted a maximum of two minutes before spluttering out, plunging you into the thick void. the recharge is relatively quick, but not near fast enough for your liking. you were already brain storming ways to improve its runtime. 

but that's for later, for when you had the time and resources and safety to tinker. for right now, you had wires to follow and an elevator to fix.

it's not long before the darkness starts to physically claw into your head, getting gradually worse and worse with each step. every time there's a blackout, your brains feels like its on the verge of exploding. your skin crawls, spine shivers, long shadows thrown against walls that dance into puppets, looking like approaching threats, and every time, it gets you spinning on a heel to aim at it. Gordon's being considerate, in facing the puppets with you, and trying to be as slow in his sweeps as he can so you can attempt to get as full a picture as possible. he knows when the lights about to snuff out, making it known to you by stepping to your side, a careful presence that you whole-heartedly appreciate, but his kindness isn't nearly enough to calm your frazzled heart.

next time something like this happens, you tell yourself with a vengeance, you won't forget to bring a flashlight. you've always been good at remembering, but you'd been in a haste to meet Gordon for the first time. then there was the teleporter incident, and _then_ there was the ambush at your Dads lab, and since then, you haven't really had the chance for a real pit-stop outside of ammo grabs and first aid kits. its been a lot in such a short amount of time.

you hear it before you see it; the horrid scrapes of a crate being thrust aside instead of walked around, to your immediate right. you both turn to face it, Gordon lighting up the real silhouette, not a illusionary puppet, of a blood crusted Zombine. its arms hang low, movements slow, and even though it knows you're there, it doesn't charge right away. within your peripheral, you see Gordon take on a stiff, controlled stance. even with a Gravity gun and a crowbar to his name, you can tell that every inch of Gordon is rearing up to slaughter it; shoulders hunched, knees ever so slightly bent, eyes wide and locked on the Zombine. you raise a hand to pat at his shoulder that he takes little notice of, more for your own comfort than for any real reason, and then you line up your shot with both hands on the pistol. you make quick work with aim, the barrel squared with the Zombine's bobbing Headcrab, just about ready to exhale and pull the trigger- 

Gordon's light dies, and your soul shatters at roughly the same moment.

you involuntarily make a muffled, strangled yelp, deep from your chest. you flinch back with a wide step, and you hear the Zombine scream, a thunder of footsteps charging over to where you stand. the pistol shakes in your grip, finger _off_ the trigger, because you don't know where Gordon is, or if he's moved, who's sets of footsteps belong to who, and you don't know who the Zombine's gonna go after, and you can't _see_ -

there's a slam, of metal connecting with soft tissue, about a foot away from you, that makes you yell in terror and back up further. the screams of the Zombine become drowned in horrid, garbled gurgles, and the heavy slump of a body collides with the concrete. from all around you, a chorus of Zombie and Zombine's pop out of the stone-work, their bustle of movements suffocating the area and squeezing your head. your eyes tear up, desperate to see, but Gordon's flashlight refuses to come back on. from all around you, more crates are knocked over and rocks are kicked about. you pinpoint a small group behind you, one out in front, maybe two to the left and one to the right, not to mention the skittering of Headcrab's echoing around the space, but it's impossible to exactly tell where everything is without a light source, and you sure as hell don't know where Gordon is.

there is no other beacon of light down here. no doorway with a flickering bulb, no random sparks from a faulty wire, no windows, nothing. before you know it, you're heaving with ragged breaths, the groans of the monsters drowned out by your pants, and you're certain you're about to crash into a full blown panic attack. it's bad. this is _bad_. it became so bad so suddenly. you hate it.

you manage to hear the sounds of combat over the rush of blood in your ears - hard colliding with soft, the splatter of blood, the moans of the dying, a pained cry, the pitter-patter of footsteps from all around, the slumps of light and heavy bodies; you can't see whats happening, who's winning what fight, if Gordon's dead, or is dying, or is being killed, if that slump was Gordon or a Zombie- and you can't help out, you can't see a single thing, you are _not_ shooting blind-

and you crumple to the floor, curling into your knees, covering your face in an attempt to make yourself as small as possible. 

' _now there is no shame in hiding, my dear_!' the voice of Dr Kleiner chirps, from a time long gone, back when you were young enough to understand the concept of danger. ' _sometimes, hiding away is the right thing to do, should you want to save your life_!' but you're not hiding away. you _can't_ hide away when you can't even see where a hiding spot _is_. you're out in the open, with no guide to tell how far out you are, and you despise it with every fibre of your being. you're not familiar with this place, unknowing of its secrets and turns. the underground had never really been your scene, at least, not this particular section.

something large, clammy, sharp, suddenly wraps around your arm, and you shriek. without thinking, you raise your pistol to where you think the face is and jam your finger on the trigger, letting the full clip of automatic shots penetrate whatever has a hold on you. the rapid flash of each shot briefly lights up the area and stabs at your eyes, and you catch glimpses of a Zombie violently shake from each hit, poised in front of you. warm fluid lands on you as the things cries, inaudible over your pistol. the grip slides off your arm, about halfway through the clips life, yet you hold on until the entire clip has been emptied, until the gun stops recoiling, until the _click_ , _click_ , _click_ of the empty chamber hits your tinted hearing.

the Zombie leaves faint burns and a horrid smell behind. your ears ring with fear and gunfire. you're not entirely sure if you're crying.

more sounds of things being killed in the darkness continue on that you want no part of, but you don't know where a wall is, or where the bodies land, or where the Zombie's are. you can't even reload; something so natural, so easy before, ruined by the lack of sight and panic, hands shaking too much to make much sense of anything.

thoughts, so horrible and paralysing, hit you in merciless waves. _Gordon's light still isn't on, it should have come back on by now, what if he's dead? what if he turned into a Zombie? can you turn into a Zombie that fast? ... what if_ that _was Gordon? what if I just shot Zombie Gordon? if that was Gordon that grabbed my arm, does that mean I'm trapped down here, with no light, with the rest of them? am I going to die down here?_

your chest caves in, too tight, too constricted, not enough air flowing through your body. the scrabbles grow louder and louder, too close, far too close to you; the world slows down to an unbearable pace, and you can't see, and you could be alone, and you're going to die-

you hear something different over the din - a wheezy voice you don't recognise, too far out and muffled to pick out any particular words. suddenly a bright white is flashed into your face, obscuring your everything. you don't scream this time, instead flashing your fist out just as fast toward the anomaly. it connects with something soft and solid, the white beam thrown to the right with the force, finally out of your face, and you take that chance to crawl backwards, your pistol left on the ground. you can hear yourself, on how hard you intake air - can feel the strain burn deep within your lungs, but you're far passed caring.

it takes entirely too long to connect the dots - for your vision to adjust and stop spinning with white dots, to take in the lack of dangerous noises, of the form hunched across from you, stock still and docile. they're sat down, tilted to the right, bowed slightly over themself, a hand nursing their face. you don't see a toothy, open chest, nor a Headcrab head, instead seeing a light-bulb on their chest, an orange body, red hair, a deep set scowl now aimed at you, a discarded crowbar by their side-

' _punch first, ask questions later_.' your Dad had said in a light tone, when you were six years old, stood over your first encounter with a Zombie. had it not been for your Dad, it would have killed you. you'd wandered away, bored. you'd found them limping outside where you lived. you'd ignored your Dads warnings, of never interacting with things without a face. you'd just wanted to know if they were okay. ' _most times, in a world like this, you don't get to ask questions first. it's_ always _better to be safe than sorry_.'

'oh shit, Gordon-' it comes out as a scratch, relief a flood through your veins that causes your body to sag, the tenseness instantly filtering away. he sits up a bit straighter at your voice and rubs his bottom lip with the back of his hand, and that's when you see the blood streaming from his nose. you notice other little details, like the green splashed on his suit, the suits new indents and white marks that weren't there before, that he's not wearing his glasses.

_oh, Christ, I just punched Gordon Freeman in the face_.

'o-oh my God Gordon, I'm-I'm so sorry, are you alright?' your knuckle stings with remorse. you shuffle over to him on your hands and knees, face contorted in concern and guilt, but Gordon shrugs at you and sniffles. his scowl lightens up a touch, a brief smile stretching across his lips.

'you have a good punch.' Gordon signs, keeping the light aimed downwards. you gape back at him, dumb founded as his smile slips into worry. 'are you okay? are you hurt?' dumb founded-ness morphs into downright shock. you'd just punched him square in the face, probably broke his nose in the process, and _he's_ the one asking if _you're_ hurt? in the time it takes to find your voice, he's already scooped up his glasses, blown on them, cleaned them as best he can, and put them back on. they're still horribly smudged with dust.

'... I just- you- ... are the-the Zombies dead? did you get them all on your own?' he nods, shuffling himself into a more comfortable position. indeed, from what the light is able to show, you see the stiff legs and beat in heads of Zombies and Zombine's, a Headcrab with a dent in its back tossed a ways away, tracks of green and yellow blood on the floor. 'how did-? how did you _see_ them?' Gordon does another shrug. he's way too calm over the nightmare that just happened, from the mini war he'd won without a single shred of visibility. he stares at you, with a look you've only seen him wear a few times before, his anger melted away into something more genuine and soft.

'are you sure you are okay? not hurt?' he signs in a quick flurry, brows knotted, lip tight. he tips onto his knees and leans forward, then cups your face, his grip gentle. he tilts you this way and that, looking over you for any sign of damage, and you let him. he wipes something on your cheek away with his thumb, then looks down and moves to cradle your arm, where three faint scratches reside. they don't hurt, not really - there isn't even a left over sting, but he looks torn up about it either way, and he ignores his nose to make haste in cleaning you up as best he can. which, honestly, doesn't help by much. in fact, you're covered in _more_ grime by the time he's done, but you suppose it's the thought that counts, and Gordon really is trying his hardest.

plus, Gordon has never touched you before. not like this. you haven't known each other for long, but it still short circuits your brain, for the tenth time in five minutes. it takes a few seconds to find your voice and speak up, which is quickly becoming a trait. you talk at the same time Gordon moves away to sign the same question. your skin tingles from the contact.

'are you okay?' 'hurt?'

'it's fine, it doesn't even hurt, I'm. ... I'm fine, Gordon, really, just, a bit shook up, I just- I _really_ hate this place, can we get a move on? I'm not above saying this place creeps me the hell out.' you reach out for your pistol, make quick haste in reloading it, and climb back to your feet, Gordon following suit with his crowbar in hand. 'you sure you're alright though? that looks ah, nasty; I'm still sorry I did that.' you lean in to look closer at his nose, but he waves another dismissive arm. he turns his chest toward the ceiling so the light shines on the dangling wires, to get you to change the subject, and you suppose you could drop it, at least for now. you still feel awful about it, but if Gordon didn't want to talk about it, then that's fine with you. he makes a subtle attempt to wipe away the fresh stream of blood from his top lip, pretending to scratch his cheek when you turn your head, but you still catch it anyway.

'have to be quick.' he signs with a focused expression, made awkward with the crowbar. he taps the HEV light with the tip of the crowbar in soft _thunks_ with an exaggerated urgency, though his expression is deadpan. 'this is shit.'

you break into a surprised smile, heart instantly feeling lighter, and nod, the anxiety of earlier quickly fading. you're not far from the power box, if the dipping wires are anything to go by. it's not over yet, but you're getting gradually closer to the exit. you start your walk, shoulder to shoulder with Gordon, and you make it a point to not look at the scatter of bodies, instead keeping your attention souly on the wires. Gordon gently knocks your shoulder with his. you appreciate the sentiment. 

'say Gordon, can you see in the dark at all?' within your peripheral, with nightmarish shadows cast along his face, Gordon smiles a wide, wolfish grin, and resolutely shakes his head. he doesn't stop, nor adds a sign to it. his glasses glint mischievously. 

you honestly can't tell if he's lying or not.


	3. from my tip to my nose, I'm full of woes; that's just how it goes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> started: 11/8/2020  
> eee I didn't know how to end this and it's so long gh3hgvfsdu3 fuck. also Barney is in White Forest because I DO, in fact, make the rules  
> 

everyone has their limits. for some, it's five minutes into a run, when they're at the end of their first street coughing up their lunch and regretting every single life decision they've ever made. for others, it's after two solid months of studying, when they finally succumb to the void of madness. they sink into the lines upon lines of paragraphs and bullet points, half formulated equations, a disgusting combination of Maths and English, half empty soda cans and half eaten pizzas.

you're not sure where you fit in on that scale, what with the unasked for time fuck-ery making everything one big, confusing mess. what _is_ your limit? a day? two days? three? a week? how long have you been in this new future for, since you woke up on that train? you weren't sure on any of the specifics, and as a theoretical physicist, it really is starting to drive you up the wall.

you want to kick the shit out of that suit man so bad it physically _hurts_.

some people know when their limit is about to break. they can prepare for it, or prolong it, and either accept it with open arms, or make the fall a tad easier. you at least know where you fit in with that metric; you had zero idea on when you'd crumple into a hopeless heap, or if you even _would_ in the first place. perhaps a foolish thought, since you're a human, with a brain, thoughts, feelings, all that junk, but you'd honestly expected _not_ to break, with how on constant edge you are basically all of the time. you wouldn't say you believed yourself to be immune, you just reckoned it wouldn't happen yet.

and you suppose there really are better times for a mental break to happen.

* * *

you walk down the hallway, deep within the bowels of White Forest, Alyx and Barney close behind you. they talk to each other in soft, casual tones that you pay idle attention to, but from what you can tell, they sound happy. and it's nice. the atmosphere, even with the stone walls and wraps of wires and heavy machinery, is nice. it's comfortable. you haven't been able to get many respites in your long, long journey to this point, and you feel like you can finally unwind, if only a little. it's nice, not having to be on constant edge. nice, to simply exist. this place is secure and safe. you're with people you know and can trust. nothing bad can happen here, not this deep inside the base.

you've felt these kinds of things before; back when you met Barney and Alyx for the first times, back at Dr Kliener's lab, back at Eli's lab and when you played with D0G. you'd thought the exact same thing - _nothing bad can happen here_.

you blank out. how long have you blanked for? suddenly you're stood, motionless, at the end of the hallway. Barney and Alyx are no longer behind you, and now there's a siren screaming from somewhere. whats happening? where did they go? was this an error on your part? you feel vibrations through the floor, of something large approaching your position, quickly getting closer, and you begin to hunch in preparation, autopilot kicking in. whatever that is is _not_ friendly, you decide.

five seconds later, a Hunter shatters through the right side of the wall in a shower of plaster and dust. you don't focus on it, instead backing up until you come across a passage way to your right, the Hunter in step with you the entire trip. you hear its gun begin to whirr to life, and you duck and roll into the hallway just as a spread of fléchette's dig into the wall. you land harshly, a spike of pain from shoulder to knees that you ignore. there's explosions behind you that rock the facility's core, so close that it heats up the suit to nip at your skin. you whip out your Shotgun and spin on a knee to face your interloper, it rapidly approaching on shaky legs. you exhale, then jam your finger on the trigger.

the world sharpens and dulls all at once, into the familiar view you're accustomed with when pushed into survival mode. your limbs jolt with an unfeeling burn, adrenaline high, concentration higher. you've done this so many times, it's almost natural at this point; to revert to survival mode, to shoot first and question later, to assess the situation with pin point accuracy and think quick on your feet. there is no room to make even one error, because that one error could cost you your life, be it a miscalculated aim, a too wide throw, an uneven count of enemies.

you have come too far for errors. everything has to be perfect.

but you're exhausted. mentally exhausted, physically exhausted, a bone deep kind of exhausted. your brain stops working, your hands become numb, your vision warbles like a heat wave. there's an ache deep in your arms, your legs, your everything, and the knock back of the Shotgun makes it ten times more noticeable. your brain lags behind as the Hunter closes in, its cries of pain garbled, fluid dripping in streams from its torn open body. the clacks of its steps go unheeded, panic raging in your ears, and before you know it, you're completely out of shells. you'd stopped counting. you try to fire again and again and hear the empty _click_ _click click_ of the Shotgun taunt back. _when did I stop counting_?

that's your second error. 

the Hunter ducks down and charges with a roar, and you manage to dive out of the way and squeeze yourself tight against the wall. the Hunter sprints passed you at full tilt, its rush grazing your hair. you ignore the way you'd literally smashed into the brick, how your head swims, how the HEV suit doesn't administer morphine this time even when you'd clearly absorbed damage. _whens the last time it gave me a shot_? too late to think about it as you push off the wall and face the direction of the Hunter, filling your gun with more shells. you pump it to life just as the Hunter stumbles around to glare you down, letting out a scream of irritation. you hear the warning of its weapon gear up as you climb to your feet, and you don't think, only move, back to the hallway you'd been walking down before you'd gotten jumped.

you collide into something, someone, mid-way in your turn, and before you know it, you're being shoved to the ground. it's harsh, dangerous, unexpected, and you land flat on your ass with a huff. you hear three sets of scuffles - one machine, two pairs of military boots - and the Shotgun is ripped away from your grip. your eyes start working too late, not improved when the butt of your own Shotgun is bashed into your forehead, your glasses sent flying off to the side. you'd been too careless, too reckless. you hadn't looked at every angle, only peeking at one, ignoring the others.

third error.

for a second, there's nothing but black, nothing but quiet. another five pass before it all takes form in front of you - of smudged colours, fuzzy noises, searing pain, two sets of hands holding you up under your arms so you're forced to bend forward, something growling and sharp stationed at your back. you blink rapidly in an effort to clear the blanket, but to no avail, the fact your glasses are off only causing the room to further rotate. the exhaustion of before settles in mercilessly deep, until you're lumped down by it. blood pumps in your ears and behind your eyes; the back of your throat swirls with bile and acid; you can't feel yourself hover, or cough, or move at all. you're trapped in a limbo of unwavering space.

you don't think you can move, or get back up, if whoever has you decides to drop you. you've got no energy left, no more will to fight, no more strength to push them away, and not a single shred of want to do anything. you've only felt like this once before, back in the good old collage days, when one day, everything had become too much strain and pressure and effort for something you felt wouldn't be worth it. only this time, you can't get over it. this time, you're not allowed a break from it. you're heavy with it; with that defeat and exhaustion, bitter and resentful toward the world enough to be tied down by it. 

you don't want to do this anymore. you're tired. God, you're so _tired_. you've been running for so long; jabbed with morphine, shot at, shouted at, ushered along with no real stops, with not a second of time to process what has happened, what has been happening, why it's happening. you haven't slept since this whole mess started, you haven't eaten properly since then, drank since then; you've waded through toxic sludge and Biohazard chemicals, watched all kinds of life die, shot all kinds of guns, seen all kinds of things. you've been praised as a saviour and a God when all you'd wanted to do was get out alive and live. you haven't been able to catch up with people who haven't seen you in years, or ask a single question, or relax, or ingest the world around you - you've only been forced forward in a rush, only able to see through a tint of fear and adrenaline. you don't know anyone, barely know anything. your limbs ache, head hurts, and your heart beats too fast, too erratically, too painfully.

your mind goes totally blank. it's like you fall asleep, hovering in nothing. not quite like stasis, no - this isn't cold, nor are you aware, you just. are. and then, you wake up, and there's all kinds of horrible noises blaring from all around you. a siren continues to go off, hasty footsteps rushing here and there, gunfire, people shouting, all distant, all background ambience to you. you're face down on the cold metal floor, with a headache so bad it threatens to make you spill your guts. your previous thoughts and feelings have been wiped clean; the last thing you remember is walking down a hallway, with Alyx and Barney behind you. whats with the party? why are you on the floor? why does your body hurt so much? where have your glasses gone?

_whats going on_?

there's a blur of colours as you blink your eyes open and try to focus. you peer up, desperately trying to make sense of things. two hazy shapes are hunched before you, talking to you, reaching for you. instantly, you recognise the one on the right and bristle - the black, white, and grey design of Combine armour, the closest figure to you, a black hand out stretched to harm you, disembowel you, cause you pain. in an instant, you're up on your knees, and you punch out your fist with little hesitation and lethal precision. your glove connects, and the Combine is sent flying backwards, a direct punch with. with a nose, not a mask? you hear a surprised curse, and a body thump to the ground, and the Combine smudge is out of your face. you're about 90% in survival mode, reaching for your crowbar, more than ready to jump on them and finish the job so the bastard can never harm anyone again, when you hear a familiar voice that gives you pause.

'-on! Gordon! oh my god Barney- shit- Gordon-' all at once, you crash back into your body, senses thrown into overdrive. you take in the world around you, more clearly this time, though still hazy from your lack of glasses. you look at the hole in the right side of the wall, at the flashes of red, the remains of a brutal brawl, the bodies of a single Hunter and multiple Combine Soldiers strewn up and down the hallway. Alyx, a vague brown line, is perched a ways away, her hands held up, palms out, expression both mortified and worried, crystal clear even without the aid of glasses. on the ground next to her lays the blurry Combine you'd punched, sprawled out with their elbow in the air, and you're about to say something with your voice, warn her about the threat-

'fucking _geez_ Gordon, I figured you had a strong swing, but Christ in a hand basket!' Barney's voice is unmistakable, even over the roar of the klaxon, coming directly from the Combine's chest. its wheezy, high with pain, muffled by a hand pressed at his face, and guilt smacks into your chest in a ten ton weight. once Alyx is sure you're not about to pounce on Barney, the tension eases from her shoulders, and as she lowers her hands, the klaxon is finally shut off. it doesn't give way to complete silence, but it's not far off.

you're frazzled and torn. so much has happened in such a short span of time that you're not sure where to start unpacking. there's a blank spot in your memory, from the hallway to now, that you really, really do not like. _is my mind beginning to fail_? 

'-don? Gordon?' Alyx's voice calls, breaking you from your mind again. she's right in front of you now, glasses held out for you, and you accept them with a grateful nod. they're dusty. you slip them on, now able to see, and yeah, this place looks a mess. Alyx looks a mess too, covered in dirt, sweat caked on her face, dust in her hair. but she smiles at you, relief palpable in her eyes, and her shoulders sag that much more. 'hey, you alright? what happened back there? we tried calling out to you but you just,' she makes a vague gesture, brows scrunching in confusion. 'I dunno. you stood there and didn't respond.' you shake your head with a shrug, because even you don't know. Alyx's expression doesn't lift from concern. 

Alyx shuffles over, and then she has her hands on your face. it's a soft hold, one you can easily pull away from, but you're so shocked from the contact that, for a second, you blank out. her fingers are splayed around your ears and into your hair, tilting you this way and that, glancing over every inch of you. she stares at your forehead, where most of the hurt thumps, and cringes. you imagine an ugly bruise there. maybe that's why your memory is so fucked.

'told you we should'a dragged him with us.' Barney mumbles from his spot, a pout in his voice. another grin spreads across Alyx's face as she releases you and moves to check over the front of the HEV suit, but the pit of guilt doesn't shift from your stomach. 'oh I'm fine by the way, y'know, 'case y'all'er wondering. just got my nose broken, but it's fine, I'm just peachy.' the pit of guilt deepens into a chasm.

'you hush, you're not the one that got jumped by a Hunter and its pets.' she brushes your arm with careful sweeps, humour in her tone.

'nah, you're right, I just got punched in the face by a guy wearing _metal armour_.' Barney quips back, but at least he doesn't sound mad. you still feel awful about it.

'you remember the time you split coffee on yourself? or when you accidentally jabbed your finger with a knife? or that one time, when Dad asked to help carry stuff, and a hammer fell on your head?' you hear Barney laugh, a choked, wheezy thing, and you're back at Black Mesa. Alyx pulls away to sit in front of you again. her expression is soft. she seems happier than before.

'I'm being bullied.' Barney groans between his laughter. 'I just got punched in the face, and I'm being bullied.'

'I'm not bullying, I'm bringing up reminders so you feel the pain less.'

'doesn't help Al, really reaaaaaally does not help-' 

'how'er you holding up, Gordon?' Alyx asks, ignoring Barney's continued rants. how _do_ you feel? tired, for one. dizzy, for another. the headache hasn't eased, and there's a new pain blooming from your left side. you really want some soup, you want to tell her. you want some hot soup, you want a hot shower, and you want to sleep on a bed with a mattress. you want to be selfish and take a day off, just a single day off, all for yourself. you want to sleep an entire day, not see anyone for an entire day, not run or walk or talk or interact or shoot, for just a single day. 

'fine.' you lazily settle on, because that's not fair, is it? she cocks a brow. she can see through your lie. 

'you don't have'ta lie, y'know.' Barney calls as he leans up, also hearing through your lie. a smear of blood is wiped across his top lip, rivers continuing to leak from his nose. his appearance is a mirror of Alyx in the mess department, made worse with his nose. 

'I am so sorry.' you sign with a wince. he waves a hand with a disinterested 'eh', wiping at his lip. he looks just as tired as you feel.

'I did the exact same thing to him.' Alyx fills in with a nudge in Barney's direction. both of them sit cross legged from you, so you decide to copy them. your brain still itches with worry and danger, unable to unwind, to relax. even if you can't exactly remember what happened, you still feel the after shocks of it. Barney looks at Alyx in confusion, realisation quickly settling in once he figures out what she means.

'you _punched_ Gordon???'

'yeah, I uh- it was down in an old hideout, and I couldn't see, so I kinda.' she does a weak punch to Barney's shoulder. you remember that. it had hurt to high heaven, and she wasn't even wearing a HEV suit. Barney's brows climb to his hair line, and he lets loose another little giggle. 

'well shit, we're all getting punched left and right, and it's not even _me_ doing the punching!' he glances at you then, and there's a softness in his eyes that has the same intensity as Alyx's. you're not sure if you can handle all the genuine looks of affection aimed your way. 'you sure you're alright, Gordon? that Hunter didn't shoot you or nothin'?' you nod, think about it, then shake your head. that Hunter had been chasing you? then you frown. think over it again. then shrug. Barney glares at you with the most fed-up, "are you for fucking real" expression you have ever seen him wear. 'wow. great input as always Gordon. real helpful.' Alyx chuckles from her spot, and you do another shrug.

'are you alright?' you sign back with a careful tilt of the head, their dishevelled clothes not going unnoticed. 'what happened?'

'we got jumped. Uriah said we got tracked here. we had to leave, 'cause all the action was close to the entrance, but we didn't realise there were Hunters down here, too.' Alyx explains with a deep frown. 'honestly? it was brutal.'

'but we won though, yeah? all of 'em? dead.' Barney adds, voice squashed from the hand covering his nose, though his determination is clear. 'we fuckin' _won_.' his speech loosens the knot in Alyx's brows, both of their warm eyes aimed at you again. you feel your heart stutter.

'yeah, we did. now c'mon, we better get going before Barney gets set with an ugly nose.' Alyx grunts as she stands up, Barney making an undignified huff as he follows her lead. 

'what is this, "bully Barney" day?' you try to follow them, but you can't. you're stiff and jelly-like all at once. you're not sure how long you sit there for, glaring at the floor like its the marbles fault you're so lacklustre. 'here, Gordon.' a black glove is thrust into your vision, followed by a fingerless glove. you do nothing but sit there and blink at them.

'no shame in getting help.' Alyx says, more warmth being injected into your bloodstream, and you can't help it. you smile. you smile so wide, it hurts your cheeks and causes your eyes to water at the edges. you probably look stupid, but you don't care, because, for the first time since the cascade, since the G-Man's offer, since the train, your chest feels full, your heart a thrum of life. you make a sound that could be a laugh, could be a sob, as you accept their offers. you can't feel their warmth through the gloves, but they're solid and real, genuine and strong in their help, and it's enough to make you almost burst into tears. they haul you to your feet in a combined effort, and once you're up right, you feel their arms snake under and around your shoulders to further support you. a good thing too, 'cause you would have crashed right back down if not for them. 'we'll get you to doctor Uriah, okay? I really don't like the look of your side.' you nod along to her words. you don't look back at the carnage of the corridor as you're practically dragged down it.

you're gonna be alright, you think, as you focus on their presences. they begin talking to each other in soft mumbles, though their words are lost to the complete and utter happiness you're floating in. they feel like a blanket. they feel like safety. they feel like home.

as long as Alyx and Barney are here with you, then you're gonna be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank y'all for reading!!! have a nice night!!!  
> holy shit this entire thing is close to 12,000 words whdhg3hjbdfs what the fuck??? literally slammed my hands on the keyboard like it was a piano


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